We All Had Our Fallen Moments
by Rinchen
Summary: Every country had a ruler that they had loved, but that love had to come to an end. Humans come and go, but the country stays, and it hurts to know. Historical settings with different countries.
1. Queen Elizabeth

**March 24, 1603, Queen Elizabeth I of England dies of blood poisoning**

Footsteps sounded down the hall, getting closer with every passing minute. They seemed to get faster, as if the person was in a rush to get there urgently. They stopped. The door opened with a creak and the man walked in and rushed over to the lone figure on the bed. He grasped the hand which was weakly held out to him. He smiled sadly, and said in a whisper, that you would have to get as close as you can to hear him.

"Hello, Elizabeth..."

Elizabeth moved her head to the side slightly, and looked at him, "Hello Arthur, I am sorry that you have to see me like thi-" Her voice was cut off by a cough, harshly pounding against her throat. The man, now known as Arthur (also known at the personification of England) held tightly to her hand, squeezing in a gesture of comfort. He didn't want to let go, because if he did, his precious Queen would be gone forever, never to be coming back. He would be alone without a leader that he had loved so honestly. Elizabeth had said that she was "married to England" and Arthur was fond of the fact that she thought that. Although... seeing his Queen in the state she was in now, you wouldn't have thought that she was the girl with the fiery red hair, steel determination in her eyes and the attitude of someone not to be messed with. When Arthur had defeated that Spanish rat, she had laughed and congratulated him - and for once he felt _happy. _Happy that someone actually wanted him, cared for him... unlike his stupid brothers and that frog France who was no good to begin with.

Elizabeth smiled with that powerful, radiant smile that could light up a whole room and make a _grown man tremble at the same time. _She lifted her hand and caressed her nation's face, rubbing her thumb against his cheek in a gentle manner.

"My nation, do not worry about me. Remember, I did say I was married to you, and I won't go down that easily." The light in her eyes dimmed a little, so little that it could be argued that it didn't, but Arthur saw it, he saw it all. The wince when she moved her arm, her joints moving in a robotic fashion, creaking ever so slightly. The way she masked her pain just to make him not worry. But he worried, oh he worried. He worried the way a mother would worry if their child got hurt or injured in some way. Only this time, it was different. This was his leader, his ruler, _his_ _Queen_ who was hurting and Arthur could do nothing about it as he _was a nation and all humans died someday but this just wasn't fair. _

"Keep me in your heart, England, and hold me dear..." Her eyes closed and that was when the waterworks spilled. Arthur, no England because he was a country and he had a duty to fulfil, cried so hard and he couldn't help it. Arthur had always liked silence. But on this day, silence had never been so loud. And he didn't like it. Not one bit.

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I love writing historical settings, because I love how the countries interact with their rulers and such. More chapters to come. And if you want, you can give me suggestions of who to do next!


	2. Spanish Armada

**1588, Sinking of the Spanish Armada**

He couldn't believe it. He lost. _Again. _His legs shook as he struggled to keep upright, disarmed and swaying dangerously. His cutlass had been kicked away from him during the fight, near the railing of the ship, but he couldn't get it now as he just didn't have the strength. His green eyes, glazed over with pain, locked onto his enemies, green shining with victory. Same shade of green, different emotions, two entirely different people.

His enemy smirked, "So, Spain, you lost again. In actual fact, I'm not that surprised... no one can defeat the British Empire." He laughed to himself as if he had told a funny joke, but Spain wasn't laughing. Spain let out a heavy breath that rattled his windpipe. _Something must have broke when we fought so recklessly, _Spain thought.

England smiled softly at him. Spain knew it was a fake, England didn't even have a heart to feel the emotion known as love but if he did, it would be frozen over with ice, discarded in his ribcage without a care. England slowly stepped closer to him, heels of his boots clicking in a steady rhythm, and stopped before his beaten, broken form. The green eyes of the devil before him looked his appearance over. Some of the wounds were starting to scab over and the ones that didn't still oozed blood. Blood ran down Spain's face like a waterfall from the gash that England had given him. His arm was definitely broken, it wasn't meant to twist and make that snapping noise. Blood dribbled out of his nose, running into his mouth and it had that coppery, metallic taste that he couldn't stand.

"I wonder what your friends and loved ones will think..."

"Belgium."

"Prussia."

"France."

"Romano..."

...

Spain's eyes widened and his breath hitched, breathing getting faster every second. England smiled.

"Ah, yes... Romano. Your precious, little tomato, I wonder what he is thinking now? Dead or alive, that is the question, a question that will never get answered. It would be sad if anything happened to Romano... wouldn't it?" Spain lurched forward suddenly and grabbed England forcefully.

"Don't hurt Romano!" He shouted. He didn't like to say, but England was completely right, what would Romano be thinking now. Would he be waiting every night by the door to see if he would be walking down the path? Or after the first night alone, would he think that something bad has happened? His eyes started closing and he wondered what was goi-_Ah, yes, that's right_. His wounds. His blood stained the deck below and the world turned and twisted before him.

England looked at him once more and turned away. Spain collapsed and heard only one thing come out of England's mouth, "Looks like your time is up, Spain. The clock keeps on ticking until it can't tick no more."

Spain then welcomed the sweet world of unconsciousness.


	3. The Romanovs

**July 17, 1918**

Russia walked down the grand hallways of the Winter Palace. It was a beautiful building with a golden interior and intricate sculptures built into the décor. His fingers traced the wall as he looked on ahead and played out his memories in front of him. Russia smiled slightly, as he saw Grand Duchess Anastasia run down the halls (probably away from the maids, God knows how many times she used to do that) towards him to hide in his over-sized coat. One of the maids came round the corner with an irritated look on her face.

"Ah, there you are Ivan, have you seen the young princess? It is time for her daily massage but she keeps on running away, that little imp." The maid asked, clearly frustrated. Ivan shook his head. The maid sighed and ran off in another direction. A childish giggle sounded and he looked down. Anastasia peeked out and smiled up at him, eyes shining with childish glee. She skipped out and turned to him to hug him. She giggled once more and ran off, disappearing into thin air.

Ivan's smiled vanished and was replaced by a sad frown. He looked around and saw all of the maids and servants disappearing one after another. Alexei, Olga, Tatiana and his Tsar, Nicholas II vanishing without a trace. His violet eyes glistened with unshed tears and he turned back to the wall.

Russia walked down the grand hallways of the Winter Palace. It was a destructive building with a damaged interior and sculptures that have no meaning. His fingers, stained with blood, traced the wall as he looked on ahead and played out the memories in front of him that were deeply locked away in the darkest depths of memory.

Russia was ecstatic when he heard the news. Anastasia might be alive! He had thought that the happiness he had felt right then would stay for longer.

...He was wrong.

Russia stared at the woman before him. This wasn't Anastasia, this... fake didn't have the right feeling as _his _Anastasia. He sighed, he seemed to be doing this quite a lot lately, and turned away. He didn't even bother to say goodbye.

**2008**

He stared despondently at the headline in the newspaper. Anastasia wasn't alive, she was dead - just buried in another tomb. Russia should of known it wasn't possible. He had saw her get shot, saved by the jewels and then get stabbed to her death, stealing her last plea for help. He put down the newspaper and stood up slowly. He glanced out of the window and wondered whether God had sensed his mood. It was snowing, just like it was in his heart of cold.

He had never dared go back to the Winter Palace after that. He didn't even look at it. The memories were too unstable to be let out of the cage again.


End file.
